


Tell Me a Secret, Sherlock Holmes.

by DaringlyDomestic



Series: Tumblr Drabble Challenge [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Love Confessions, M/M, Microscopic Angst, Smut, Smutty, Truth or Dare, gentle explicit love, more smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-31
Updated: 2016-05-30
Packaged: 2018-07-11 06:30:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7033564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaringlyDomestic/pseuds/DaringlyDomestic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>#45: "Tell me a secret." </p><p>for @victorianlovers</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. Sherlock Holmes Doesn't Theorize Without All the Data

**Author's Note:**

> #45: "Tell me a secret." 
> 
> for @victorianlovers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Tell me a secret, Sherlock Holmes."
> 
> John's voice is low and seductive, sending a shiver of want crackling through his stomach. Sherlock's heart beats frantically against his ribcage, and his breathing grows fast as he feels John's lips flutter against the sensitive skin of his neck. The kiss, if it could really be called that, is so quick and so light that Sherlock is almost convinced he had imagined it.

Sherlock had been quiet and distant all day. Something was definitely wrong. If the sullen silence had not clued John in, Sherlock's easy acceptance of Mycroft's case would have done. John is desperate to find out what is bothering his friend, but Sherlock is busy packing to avoid the topic. Heaving a heavy sigh, John gives it up for now and heads upstairs to pack his own bags. Even an eerily quiet Sherlock is an impatient Sherlock, and as much as the detective's current behavior worries John, he is loathe to trade it in for angry tirades and weary chastisements.

* * *

 

Mycroft's interference had been a blessing! And wasn't that a flashing neon indicator of Sherlock's internal turmoil? He can't remember the last time he felt _grateful_ for the git's overly-large nose and its predilection for jutting in where it is not wanted. Sherlock was sure John had seen everything. It simply would not do.

Sherlock flies around his room, tossing dress clothes haphazardly into his open suitcase. For once, he doesn't really care about the precise folds necessary to retain pristine outfits while traveling. He forgets half of his hair care products and takes only the pair of shoes currently on his feet. A major miscalculation, but Sherlock Holmes does not notice. He sweeps out of the flat at breakneck speed, donning his Belstaff, and shouting for John to hurry up.

* * *

 

Sherlock had not filled him in on the details of the case, but John is not surprised to be pulling up to the airport. Mycroft would have all the necessities in place, nevermind that John's passport is currently in his desk drawer at home. A passport bearing his name and photograph magically appears alongside an envelope that Sherlock snatches quickly and secrets away in the flaps of his coat. John merely shrugs and turns to help the driver remove the luggage from the boot.

Half-past twelve finds the pair of them comfortably ensconced aboard Mycroft's private plane. John chuckles and sprawls in his seat, but Sherlock's spine remains rigid and his body on alert.

"Sherlock?"

The detective gives a deep rumble to indicate his partial attention to the matter.

"What's all this about then?"

Sherlock shakes his head, and it seems that John's question will go unanswered.

"Not enough detail to adequately explain. That's why we're going in person. Need more data." 

Sherlock waggles his eyebrows comically. 

John rolls his eyes at the dramatic non-explanation but settles more comfortably into his chair as a flight attendant materializes and delivers a tumbler of whiskey to each gentleman.

Sherlock's hand quivers as he raises the glass to his lips. The smooth sting is achingly familiar and strangely comforting. The detective hunches forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and steepling his hands beneath his chin. He fixes John with his piercing gaze and watches disparate thoughts chase themselves across his features.

"Now, how will you entertain me until we arrive?"

 John, who is taking an unfortunately  liberal sip at the moment, chokes and splutters at the inquiry.

"Entertain you?"

He gasps out amidst deep coughs. 

"Mmm. Yes." 

Sherlock's response is little more than a purr. John can hear the slight annoyance underlying it. Sherlock hates repetition.

John casts around frantically for ideas when his eyes settle on the crystal tumblers in front of them. He rolls his shoulders back confidently and smirks across the aisle at the poncy idiot. 

"Alright then. Truth or dare?" 

Sherlock groans and shuts his eyes.

"Really, John? How infantile."

But John's face glows with a youthful exuberance that Sherlock simply can not deny. Anything that makes his friend that happy is worth the discomfort. He sits up straight and eyes his companion carefully.

"Dare."

John grins and pauses for a moment, searching for a decent dare.

"Tell me a secret."

Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"How original, John."

His voiced drips with sarcasm and disdain.

"The flight attendant is pregnant and hasn't told her boyfriend yet because he is sterile; therefore, he'll know she cheated as soon as she tells him. She hasn't decided whether or not to keep it."

"Brilliant."

John gives admiration as easily as he breathes.

"Magnificent, really it is, but you're supposed to tell me one of _your_ secrets, genius."

John teases the detective. Sherlock starts violently and flings himself out of the chair. He stalks to the other end of the plane to drop fresh ice into his glass. The detective is so preoccupied with carefully keeping his face averted, that he fails to notice the heavy cadence of John's steps as he approaches. The first conscious indications of John's presence are the rasp of his breath and the scent of whiskey. A warm breath ruffles the curls along his neck and John's cheek brushes his shoulder as he leans forward.

"Tell me a secret, Sherlock Holmes."

John's voice is low and seductive, sending a shiver of want crackling through his stomach. Sherlock's heart beats frantically against his ribcage, and his breathing grows fast as he feels John's lips flutter against the sensitive skin of his neck. The kiss, if it could really be called that, is so quick and so light that Sherlock is almost convinced he had imagined it.

By the time he gathers himself and turns around, John is reseated comfortably with one leg crossed over the other and his hands behind his head, cradling his neck. His ultramarine eyes are warm and welcoming, but do not match the heat of his words a moment before.

Sherlock stumbles back to his seat and gracelessly falls into it. He sets his tumbler back on the table and purposefully does not meet John's eye.

"I think I'm novewityou."

Sherlock mumbles. John gives a throaty chuckle, and Sherlock's heart sinks. Of course John would find it funny. What had he really been expecting?

"I didn't catch that. What did you say?"

Sherlock risks a glance up and takes in John's open, eager face. He wasn't laughing at Sherlock. He truly had not understood the statement. The detective draws in a deep breath and steels his spine. Head held high, he locks his gaze just over John's left shoulder.

"I think I'm in love with you."

The admission rolls smoothly off his tongue. John inhales sharply and promptly stops breathing. The men stand there, frozen in position for so long that Sherlock begins to worry about John's lack of oxygen. Still not making direct eye contact, Sherlock opens his mouth to comment, but the comment is rendered unnecessary by John's greedy inhale. He gasps and gapes, and Sherlock has never hated being trapped in a tin cupboard 30,000 feet above the ground more than he does right now. He wants desperately to flee, to yank open the doors and put as much space between him and his stupidity as possible. He does not want to stay and watch the shards of his life crash around him as John rejects his pitiful offering.

Sherlock doesn't realize his hands are shaking until John steps forward and carefully wraps them in his own. He can't help himself as his eyes drift up to catalogue the feelings flitting across John's painfully transparent face.

"Sherlock Holmes doesn't theorize without all the data."

John's voice is little more than a frightened whisper. His face is asking a question though his mouth is not.

"No. I don't."

Sherlock replies, equally softly, demolishing the last layer of fragile protection he retains. Now, his battered bleeding heart is in John's hands, and Sherlock has no way of knowing whether they are the hands of the doctor or the soldier at this moment. He flinches as John squeezes his hands gently.

"Sherlock,"

John calls, making sure that he has the detective's full attention. Tension stretches between them and the moment lengthens into a fluttering delicate thing that neither man is in a hurry to disturb. John smiles at Sherlock's uncertain, borderline fearful expression.

"Sherlock,"

He murmurs in a voice full of warm affection.

"I am so fucking in love with you."

Sherlock can barely register the words. His brain dissects each individual letter as it spills from John's mouth. His mind catalogues the shapes of John's lips as they form the words he can scarcely believe he is hearing. The entire process halts immediately at a soft but incessant press of lips against his own.

John's hands are in Sherlock's hair, pulling him down to slot their mouths together more comfortably. Sherlock's body  responds instinctively. His arms grasp John's waist and yank him forward to press his hips flush against Sherlock's pelvis. He moans at the sharp bite of teeth dragging along his lower lip.

 John's mouth is a cerulean sky painted pink and yellow by soft brushes of tongue. The kiss is a sunset, a prelude to something darker, deeper, filled with a million pinpricks of light. Sherlock can see them dancing in John's eyes. John's breath is a cool evening breeze, promising comfort and calm. John's fingers brush his skin reverently like the tender kiss of waves, ebbing and flowing along his ribcage.

John's chest is a conch. He presses his ear firmly against it to hear the thump-thump, thump-thump of the ocean breaking against the cliff face. Sherlock is panting heavily, and he can hear the water rushing around him. The sun is setting faster than he thought as his vision tunnels.

He opens his eyes and stares directly into the sun, its brilliance is blinding after the soft, darkness of the night sky. He can hear the creaking of trees and the whisper of water.

No.

Actual whispers. A voice. John's voice.

"…didn't expect you to pass out on me."

Sherlock can hear the concern coloring the teasing tone. He struggles to form words. He has to reassure John that he did nothing of the sort. He has to explain about the sunset and the ocean and the night sky.

"…millions of stars in your eyes, John."

Damn! His voice kicks in halfway through his explanation. John smiles adoringly at him anyway, so Sherlock can't really gather the energy to care. He lifts a hand to stroke John's cheek. John nuzzles into the motion and his eyes flutter closed.

"John?"

"Hmm?"

"Can I tell you another secret?"

John's eyes snap open and burn with intensity.

"Of course. You can tell me anything."

Sherlock's lips curl into a small, but genuine smile.

"I want you to fuck me on the floor of this plane. I want your fingers teasing me open until I'm sobbing and begging. I want your cock filling me and your body surrounding me as you thrust into me. I want to break your careful control when I fall apart beneath you. I want you to bruise me and bite me and come inside of me. Right now."

John's eyes go dark, and he swings one knee over to straddle Sherlock's hips. His hands frame Sherlock's face, effectively pinning him in place.

"The things I'm going to do to you…"

John's words are a promise, and Sherlock shivers with anticipation. He chastises the small voice in the back of his head that mutters nervously. He may not be the most experienced, but this is John. John Watson. The man he loves. The man who loves him. There is nothing to fear. Except -

John, wonderful, magnificent, John Watson always knows. He brushes an errant curl off his Sherlock's forehead and his gaze softens.

"This is all so new, isn't it love?"

Sherlock nods his head, grateful that John isn't making him spell it out in words. He's not sure he could voice the anxiety, even to John. John presses a chaste kiss to Sherlock's forehead.

"I want all of those things with you, Sherlock. Every single one. But this time, if it's alright with you, I just want to love you as much as possible, in every way possible. I want to press my love into your skin so that it is always a part of you. You will never have to doubt again. Please can I do that? Can I show you how much I love you?"

Sherlock can feel tears falling from above him, mixing with his own salty tracks.

"Please."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always please feel free to tell me what you thought! I'd love to chat.  
> Feel free to send me prompts if you have something you've been dying to have written, either on here or over on Tumblr (I am @daringlydomestic).


	2. I Will Always Want You, You Mad Bastard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "John."
> 
> Sherlock's voice is wrecked. His words are deep and needy. He hardly knows what he is asking for but he needs it desperately, needs John desperately - harder, faster, more.
> 
> John understands and stills his hips. Sherlock whines at the loss of contact and tries to pull John back down. John's fingers trace along his belt while Sherlock slips a hand down the back of John's trousers. John sucks in a breath as Sherlock's big warm hand kneads his arse cheeks, but he doesn’t speed up. He looks directly at the detective as he slips the belt out of the buckle.
> 
> "I'll take care of you, love."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John finally get to have some sexy times now that the "love confessions" are out of the way.

John kneels up and begins to unbutton his cardigan, letting Sherlock's eyes roam over every inch of him.

"I have loved you for so long, Sherlock. From the very first night when I followed you across rooftops and through alleyways. From the moment Angelo had to remind me I wasn't whole anymore."

John slides the cardigan off his shoulders and pulls his undershirt over his head. He flings both to the side and tangles a hand back in Sherlock's hair. He leans down to steal a quick kiss.

"Except, I was. You made me whole again. The mad detective with the insane cheekbones, turning his coat collar up to make sure he looked all mysterious."

John beams, and Sherlock blushes at the reference. He had hoped John's words were meant to be flirty, but he hadn't been sure at the time. Baskerville was a jumble of uncertain moments.

John's fingers trace the aforementioned cheekbones.

"I didn't know why at the time, but I was so scared, Sherlock. I knew you were going to take that damn pill, and I was too far away to stop you. So I stopped him. I didn't even think twice. I didn't care about the consequences to me. I was just relieved that you were safe." 

He kisses a line of bruising kisses along Sherlock's jaw. He yanks the detective's curls to tilt his neck back, giving himself better access.

"And then,"

Sherlock gasps as John sucks hard along the column of his throat.

"Then you deduced it. What I'd done, and I thought it was all over. But you surprised me again. Got rid of the powder burns and asked me to dinner, even though you didn't eat a thing."

John admonishes gently and licks from Sherlock's collarbone to his ear. Sherlock whimpers and presses up into the contact. His hands scramble over John's golden skin.

"May I?"

John's hands hover over the buttons of Sherlock's dress shirt. Sherlock places his hand over John's heart and lets the familiar cadence slow his breathing. He nods and pulls John down for another kiss. John works the buttons loose as Sherlock grows bolder. He angles his head to deepen the kiss and explores without inhibition. His tongue quests over John's lips and plunders unashamedly into John's mouth. His lips press softly and his teeth nip carefully, forcing a moan from John.

"Bloody genius."

John murmurs as his hands stroke each new patch of skin that appears. Finally, he has Sherlock's shirt undone. He barely slides it off of Sherlock's shoulders before he is nosing along his collarbone and pressing kisses into the smooth pale skin of his chest. A pleasant blush creeps along the detective's chest and neck, deepening his skin to an aroused, mottled red.

Sherlock wraps his arms around John and holds him close, their chests against one another. He thrusts up sending frissons of pleasure racing through John's body.

"Christ!"

John swears as he grinds back, rolling his hips to press along the entirety of Sherlock's hardened length.

"J-John."

John reaches beneath Sherlock to grip his beautifully full arse. The grip of John's hands provides a perfect counterbalance to the force of his thrusts, increasing the pressure along Sherlock's cock. The detective's eyes blow wide and his head flops back.

" _John_."

His voice is wrecked. His words are deep and needy. He hardly knows what he is asking for but he needs it desperately, needs John desperately - harder, faster, more.

John understands and stills his hips. Sherlock whines at the loss of contact and tries to pull John back down. John's fingers trace along his belt while Sherlock slips a hand down the back of John's trousers. John sucks in a breath as Sherlock's big warm hand kneads his arse cheeks, but he doesn’t speed up. He looks directly at the detective as he slips the belt out of the buckle.

"I'll take care of you, love."

As soon as the leather slides through the metal buckle, Sherlock lifts his hips to help John work the belt out of its loops. Impatient and frantic, Sherlock chucks the belt across the room and shimmies out of his trousers, not even bothering to undo the button or zip. John grips his thighs and kisses along his ribs. John's airy chuckle rustles across Sherlock's skin, covering his body in gooseflesh. 

Sherlock makes to shuck off his pants as well, but John grasps his wrists and shakes his head. 

"Let me, please? Just - let me...?"

Sherlock traces the fractal pattern splayed over John's shoulder. His index finger lingers along angry red lines and caresses knotted mangled flesh. John's breath stutters as he chokes back a sob. Overwhelmed by the adoration and carefulness that Sherlock is showing to the physical reminder of his pain, John's control shatters.

He rips off his own trousers and lies beside the detective, twining their legs together to press every inch of his own skin against Sherlock's. He snakes a hand beneath Sherlock's pants and strokes him firmly. The detective gives an appreciative moan and flushes a deep, embarrassed red. John presses his stiffening cock against Sherlock's thigh, needing friction to stem the burning want the man's noises elicit. 

"You're so beautiful, Sherlock."

The detective writhes against John and his hands flutter indecisively over John's body, wanting to touch every part of him at once.

"John, please...I-I need...oh god, please."

John reaches up to tweak one magnificently pink, pebbled nipple. 

"Anything you want. Tell me what you need, love."

He rolls the nub between his thumb and forefinger as he swipes his palm across the head of Sherlock's cock. The detective cries out and arches into the touch.

"J-John, John, Joooohhhhhnnn."

The man seems incapable of any other speech as he chants John's name. John takes pity on him and releases his nipple with a quick swipe of his tongue. He moves back up to kiss lazily along Sherlock's jaw, giving the detective a moment to regather his composure.

Sherlock rolls away and crosses the room, grabbing his coat. John half-rises and stares in horror. Sherlock turns and registers the look on John face. In a flash, he is back across the room and wrapping John snuggly in a tight embrace. He fishes something out of the pocket of the Belstaff, then flings the coat onto the floor. John looks to his hands and finds the mysterious envelope that Sherlock had snatched from Mycroft's men so quickly. 

Sherlock blushes as he meets John's gaze. 

"I wasn't leaving."

He blurts out as he struggles to undo the envelope. In his haste, he accidentally rips it and a half dozen little packets land all around them. 

"They're um...well, Mycroft thought maybe...I guess..."

Sherlock blushes further at his own inarticulate ramblings. John thinks he has never looked more adorable. His heart squeezes with affection, but he lets Sherlock muddle through.

"I was hoping that you would want to...um, with me. I mean, it's alright if you don't. I would understand. I just thought better to be prepared and all that. You know there are approximately 69 penetration-related incidents every night in the emergency room. And I thought, if you wanted to, I wanted everything to go right. I didn't want anything to mess this up and now it's the least arousing scenario and there's no possible way you can want this, so I'll just..."

John pounces and rolls so that the detective's lanky legs are caging him against the carpet. 

"I will always want you, you mad bastard."

John growls against Sherlock's temple as he rips open one packet of lube. He liberally covers his fingers and slowly works his way along Sherlock's cock, down his balls, and back, back, back to circle his entrance. The detective whimpers at the unfamiliar sensation. John stops and looks to Sherlock for an indication. 

"Don't stop, John."

The detective snaps impatiently. It's such a Sherlock response that John has to laugh as he slowly works his finger into the man's arse. They move slowly at first, pressing and waiting, giving plenty of time for Sherlock to adjust to the feeling. Soon, the greedy genius is thrusting back onto John's finger, virtually riding him and demanding more. 

"Another, John. I'm ready. Now."

John takes Sherlock's throbbing cock in hand as he works another finger in alongside the first. The dual sensation sends ripples of need through Sherlock's body and he begs. 

"I n-need m-more, John. N-need you now. I-Inside me. Please. P-Please. Pleeeee - oh, oh, yes, god yes..."

John rips open another packet of lube and coats himself quickly. He cants his hips so that he is aligned with Sherlock's entrance, and swears heroically.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, Sherlock! I haven't got a condom. You wouldn't happen to have one in that sextastic envelope of yours would you?"

Sherlock shakes his head and lowers his hips, sliding the tip of John's cock into his arse.

"W-Wanna f-feel you. J-Just you."

Sherlock is panting and fighting the instinct to clench. John smooths back his hair and murmurs encouragement. Sherlock relaxes one muscle at a time until he is loose enough for John's cock to slide all the way inside. John stares in wonder at the vision above him. A long, alabaster body gleams in the moonlight, and John thinks it is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen (even if he knows it's over-romanticized drivel). The statuesque man doesn't wait for John. He rolls his hips experimentally and groans at the contact.

"Christ, Sherlock!"

John cries as he clasps the man's waist. Watching Sherlock take his pleasure, using John's cock to flame his arousal, is pushing John too close to the edge. He shuts his eyes and grits his teeth, trying desperately to hang on and give Sherlock every pleasure that he deserves. Sherlock must sense John's urgency, or he is as affected himself. Either way, he speeds up his movements, bouncing quickly in and out of John's lap. The obscene slapping of skin reverberates around the room and mixes with their heavy grunts. 

John's eyes fly open as Sherlock adjusts his hips and keens brokenly. He adjusts his grip to maintain the angle and thrusts up to force his cock deeper, harder, relentlessly brushing the detective's prostate each time. Watching Sherlock shake and shatter above him is too much and he can feel the heat gathering in his stomach, the muscles of his abdomen clenching, and he moans.

"Fuck. So close, love. So close. Come for me now."

Sherlock's eyes snap to his momentarily. Then he is coming. Long white stripes paint John's chest and that's enough to finish John. He thrusts once more and holds himself deep inside Sherlock as his cock pumps load after load into the overstretched hole. Sherlock collapses on top of him, and John manages to wrap his arms around the man as his body trembles with aftershocks. 

For several moments, neither man moves, perfectly content to lay together in their own sweat and come, smelling of earth and sex, and blissfully, incandescently happy. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always please feel free to tell me what you thought! I'd love to chat.  
> Feel free to send me prompts if you have something you've been dying to have written, either on here or over on Tumblr (I am @daringlydomestic).


End file.
